


Sometimes They Don't

by Oort



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Not Happy, Suicide Attempt, everyone survives but this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oort/pseuds/Oort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who the fuck are you?” is half-way out of his mouth before the person’s head comes up and fuck, those gloves.</p><p>“Joseph?”</p><p>“Shit,” the person says, and yeah, that’s Joseph, though he sounds like he’s been putting nails down his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes They Don't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cheese_kun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheese_kun/gifts).



> This is for Cheese_kun, hey! She had the initial idea, I just made it sad.

The knock on the door is awful loud for three AM, and by all rights Sebastian should just roll over and ignore it.  But he’s too much himself to do that, to be able to close his eyes as if someone’s not right outside, someone with a gun, maybe.  Or something worse.

There’s three deadbolts above the lock, because he’s a paranoid motherfucker, and he sees no reason to take them down even if he did put them up in hysteria.  Sebastian presses the barrel of the gun to the back of the door, quiet as you please, and eases it open a few inches.

Shadows; something moves in them and Sebastian fumbles for the light switch with his free hand, wedging a foot in the door to keep it from closing and blocking his vision now that whoever out there has seen him. The light goes on, a sharp brightness that sends the person stumbling backwards and covering their face with their hands.  Sebastian sees dark, matted hair and a shirt unbuttoned to the waist. The “Who the fuck are you?” is half-way out of his mouth before the person’s head comes up and fuck, those gloves.

“Joseph?”

“Shit,” the person says, and yeah, that’s Joseph, though he sounds like he’s been putting nails down his throat.  He wrenches his hands down and holds them rigid behind his back, his neck straining with the effort.  

It’s a shock, once Sebastian gets a look at him; he finds himself recoiling, pressing the gun harder against the door, and forces himself to tuck it into the back of his sweatpants.  He’s seen his partner desperate, bloody, dying: this shouldn’t affect him so much.  But it does, the stubble on Joseph’s cheeks, the the red around Joseph’s eyes. The wildness in them.

“This was a bad idea, Seb, I’m sorry,” Joseph is saying, and he’s nearly all turned around before Sebastian catches up to what he’s doing and shoulders the door open to grab him.  His arm’s not _trembling_ in Sebastian’s grasp, it’s fair jumping, and it’s been a long time since Sebastian’s likened Joseph to a cornered animal.  

Now’s the first time it’s been true.

Fuck.  He is bad at this, always was, even when his life was peaches and gumdrops.  “Like hell I’m letting you go home looking like that,” he says finally, and yanks Joseph backwards into the house, catching him when he stumbles over the doorframe.  Joseph shrinks down under his arm, warm against Sebastian’s side but probably colder than he should be— did he _walk_ here in that shirt, Jesus—and Sebastian tucks him up close to him as he does up the locks again, pats his shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting way.

“C’mon, couch now,” Sebastian says, and drags Joseph with him to the beat-up couch in the middle of the living room.  It’s yellow, which is Joseph’s least favorite color, and why the fuck is he thinking of that now. 

“Sorry,” says Joseph again, once Sebastian has him settled into the cushions; he ducked out from under Sebastian’s arm willingly enough, but he doesn’t seem to want to let go of him completely, so he holds one of Sebastian’s hands in both of his own.  Sebastian crouches down in front of him.  _Make yourself smaller_ , some part of his brain thinks, pulled from some cub-scout lecture on not getting mauled by wildlife. _Don’t be threatening._

He’s based his entire career on being threatening.  Joseph’s the nice one, the one that children talk to and old ladies make tea for.  But Joseph’s hunched over on his couch like a goddamn invalid, clutching Sebastian’s hand too tightly and panting out short, tight little gasps, and Sebastian is the one who has to make this better.

“Joseph,” he says, and slow, because he’s taken care of his partner before but he’s never seen  him this feral, and it scares him.  “Hey. Joseph. You gotta talk to me.”  The fact that Joseph isn’t, yet, is terrifying too.  Joseph always talks to him, always tells him what’s going on.  Whatever this is is big, bigger than getting shot, at least to his partner, and _fuck_.

Joseph opens his mouth and meets Sebastian’s eyes; flinches and closes it again, looks away.  Tightens his lips and looks back.  His glasses have slipped down to the edge of his nose, and this close Sebastian can see the smudges on them.  _He hates having dirty glasses._

“You remember that shit I said.  In the—in the hospital.” Sebastian reacts before he can stop himself, feels it in his face, but Joseph doesn’t seem to notice.  That’s not like him, either.  “The church, I think it was, or at least it was for me.  That was you, Seb, right?” He laughs, high and brittle. Maybe it’s a sob.  “Shit. I’m messed up today. I can’t get my words right.”

“That’s okay,” Sebastian says, because it seems the right thing to do, but Joseph cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“Don’t.  Not yet.  I need to—you’re right, I need to fucking talk.” He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue.  “You can’t be mad at me, okay? You can’t be mad.”  He’s bent almost double, his knees pulled close together, the tilt of his head making the shadows under his eyes that much darker.  Sebastian thinks he knows where this is going.  It stops his breath, closes it right off in his throat.  He couldn’t move now even if he tried.

“You know the doctors gave me anxiety meds, right?  You got them too.” Sebastian nods.  “So.  I was taking mine tonight and I got to thinking, what if I just took them all?  It would be.  Easier.”  He brings one of his hands up to his mouth.  “Oh my God.  I can’t—I can’t be like this, Seb, I need to be fine, I have to be fine!”  He’s breathing faster, muffled in his glove, and Sebastian has to lean in closer to hear the rest of his words.  “You told me never to do this again and I thought it was over, I told myself it was over, but I don’t think it is.”  He’s crying, thin, clear tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.  Sebastian can count the number of times he’s seen Joseph cry on one hand and still have enough fingers left to load a gun.

He should’ve fucking _seen_ this, should’ve got to Joseph before it went this far, how can he have been so stupid—

Even after Lily, even after Myra, it was always about the anger, about finding her, about forgetting when it became too much; he’s never quite wanted to go _that_ far, not really.  Joseph needs professional help, needs it badly.  Sebastian starts to pull away, to find the phone and call someone who knows something—but Joseph shoots out an arm and wraps it around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.  It’s uncomfortable, and Joseph must realize it, because he releases Sebastian almost immediately. His hand, too, and Sebastian shakes it as surreptitiously as he can to get the feeling back into it.  Even without the look Joseph is giving him that’s more than enough to tell Sebastian to stay, so he settles back on his heels— easing the pain in is legs as much as he can, what is this, he’s not even forty—and puts his hands on Joseph’s knees, looks up right into his eyes.

“I’m here,” he says.  “I’m not going to leave you, okay?  But you’ve gotta tell someone besides me about this.  I’m glad you told me!” he adds, when Joseph jerks, like Sebastian's pushed him nose first into live wire.  “God.  Please— please tell me when shit like this happens.  But you need— _deserve_ someone who knows what they’re doing.”  He’s fucked that up, he’s fucked it up beyond repair, but Joseph is nodding.  

“Gonna get you well again,” Sebastian says, and cups Joseph’s jaw as gently as he can.  Joseph closes his eyes and leans into Sebastian’s palm.  His breath hitches once, twice, and he swallows.

“That’s what you always do,” he says, quiet enough that Sebastian can pretend he didn’t hear it.  He’s still shaking, but the tremors are smaller now, further between.  Sebastian’s still terrified, but he’s going to make that call as soon as Joseph falls asleep, and then it’ll be—well, not okay, but something will be getting done.

“I’ve got you now,” Sebastian says, and leans up to nudge Joseph’s head down onto his shoulder.  “I'm not _ever_ letting you go.”


End file.
